


Eaten from Inside Out

by JulieArchery107



Series: Eaten from Inside Out [1]
Category: Witcher - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drinking & Talking, Drinking to Cope, Hurt/Comfort, Or Is It?, Regis being a sad boy, Regis gets a hug, Regis needs a hug, U like sad? I can give you sad, Unrequited Love, Worried Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29005947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulieArchery107/pseuds/JulieArchery107
Summary: Despite his good intentions, Regis could never stop being a monster.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy
Series: Eaten from Inside Out [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2127867
Comments: 5
Kudos: 46
Collections: The Witcher - Geralt x Regis





	Eaten from Inside Out

"Eaten from Inside Out"

Chapter 1

"Part 1: Regis"

Looking down at the bottle containing Mandrake hooch tightly clasped in his hand (his own words, said a long time ago 'I never break rules I set for myself' echo through his mind and he laughs. 'Oh how far I have fallen.'), which was shaking despite it's tight grip on the slim glass neck, a single thought crossing through his intoxicated mind (the alcohol was supposed to help with that. It didn't. It _never_ did.).

_Coming back to life was a mistake._

Death, however unpleasant, was preferable to… _this_.

For once he didn't know what to call it. This… _thing_ he was doing.

It can't be 'living', there is far too much death coursing through his veins. (Sometimes it talked, quietly in the back of his mind with the deep voice of his late friend and he _**breaks**_ ).

It can't be 'dying', the guilt over ~~killing Dettlaff betraying his people inappropriate feelings towards Ger~~ everything that happened gnawing at his gut made him feel very much among the functioning.

It can't even be called 'surviving'. He wouldn't be _here_ , in Toussaint, at the cemetery where he and Ge- _the Witcher_ planned their strategy, so close and yet so _far_ from the estate (if he really focused and stretched out his senses just a bit he might be able to smell hi- **No** ), in a crypt that wasn't even locked, in an area where most of his kind wanted him dead, and drinking himself into oblivion, if his objective was to _survive_.

He blinked, feeling his regenerative abilities eeb away at the comfortable buzz of intoxication, and bringing back the all too familiar bone-deep exhaustion that never seemed to go away no matter how many hours he spent sleeping, or what herbal remedies he consumed.

Swirling the alcohol in his right hand, Regis, for a brief second, entertained the idea of dying at Ger- _the Witcher's_ hands. Thought of the cool silver sword passing between his ribs and cutting straight into his heart, and the type of raw _hate_ shining in those magnificent golden orbs that could force his dear friend to go to such measures.

He wondered… just for a moment, what he would have to do to be looked at that way. To be regarded, not as a friend or companion, but as a _monster_ to be slayed.

It made him remember the fateful night all those years ago, when the Witcher placed a sword at his throat and threatened to cut him if he didn't leave, but even then, when Regis lied about who and _what_ he really was, his gold orbs were devoid of any real heat.

It was like he resigned himself to the knowledge that they will be friends regardless of species, but was acting out due to wounded pride.

The thought made him let out a broken chuckle for a time long past. He cut it short before it could turn into a sob.

Shaking the warm feeling away, Regis tried to focus back on the topic of hate, on how it must have made the Witcher's eyes burn like concentrated fire.

He looked at Vilgefortz like that ~~funny how much easier it was for him to say **his** name than Geralt's~~, Regis was sure, but he was also not around to really witness the battle that must have taken place after his... incapacitation.

He might have looked at Dettla- ~~this was getting out of hand~~ his _brother_ that way. Back when they were fighting at Tesham Mutna. Regis wouldn't know. He was too busy trying to stop things from getting more out of hand than they already were.

His efforts were for naught, of course, as they so often are.

Wounds from their confrontation have long since healed but the phantom pain remained. It _always_ remained.

The only reason Syanna didn't die was because Ger- _the witcher_ ( ~~ **Regis stop it, this is insane**~~ Gods why is it _back_?) planted that ribbon on her.

His _brother_ ( ~~ **does it really hurt that much to say my name, Regis?**~~ Please… please just _leave_ ) was only defeated because the Witcher was brilliant in his craft, certainly not because of his assistance.

Regis's hesitation and blatant refusal to really hurt Dett- _him_ in battle could have, _has_ in fact, cost them more than it should have.

The Witcher could have very well _died_ then.

But even knowing that, he didn't look at the vampire with anything besides concern.

Regis would have preferred hate to the sympathy he didn't deserve.

It would make… _this_ a lot easier.

With a growl he tossed the, now empty, bottle to the side and clumsily reached for another one.

Perhaps if he just kept on drinking, the voice would drown and he'll be alone again.

His head would finally be _quiet_.

He wondered, briefly, if he went insane along the way.  
Because only a mad man would go through the same actions, day in and day out, expecting different results every time.

And how many times now, have you tried to drown what doesn't even have lungs, Regis?

"Too many." The vampire responded, glad that, for once, it wasn't Dettl- _His_. His voice. ( ** ~~Oh Regis~~ …**) And enjoying the sound of his own voice, so scratchy and unused, echoing in the empty crypt.

He missed talking about things he loved, missed drawing his audience in with colourful descriptions and fanciful wording worthy of scholars of the highest quality, missed sharing his knowledge with Ger- _the Witcher_ ( ~~ **Regis please**~~ You're _dead_. You're _gone_ and I don't have to _listen_ to you because you're just a _phantom_ , nothing more).

Missed doing _all_ of that... without choking with shame.

He can't even _breathe_ without remembering how he ripped Dett- _his_ throat out with his fangs, trying to be _quick_ , trying to be _merciful_ (because whatever awaited next _has_ to be better than _this)_ , and ending up feeling like a cold blooded _murderer_ regardless.

_The road to hell was paved with good intentions._

Though cynical, these words hold a certain truth to them, one that he was made aware of more times than any mortal man ever would, it was almost embarrassing how many times he forgot about it, how many times he made certain decisions _despite_ it.

He truly was a fool.

"I wish I was dead." Regis whispered into the emptiness that surrounded him from all sides.

Because, perhaps if he stayed dead, none of this would have happened. Perhaps then his blood brother wouldn't have been driven to Toussaint, wouldn't have met the vengeful Syanna, wouldn't have _died_.

"What kind of a moral person causes more trouble alive than dead?" He threw the question out into the void.

"One that can't stop overthinking his mistakes."

The response came back spoken by the second person he spent the entire night desperately trying to get out of his head. How fitting. "What are you doing here, Regis?"

There was that infuriating concern again.

"Drinking." Because, technically, that was what he was doing, so the vampire reached blindly next to him and grabbed the first bottle-shaped object he touched. "The night seems perfect for a bit of indulgence in an old forgotten habit, don't you think?" He then put the bottle to his lips, and was vaguely disappointed when it turned out empty.

"That's not what I meant and you know it." Of course Geralt was far too perceptive to fall for such an obvious deflection, one does not become as famous as he without the ability to read his opponents, after all.

Regis felt rather than heard the witcher approach, even though said man made his footsteps deliberately loud, as to not startle the intoxicated vampire, and sit down next to him on the dirty crypt floor. "Talk to me Regis, what's going on with you? Why are you back here?"

"I don't know what you mean, dear witcher." The vampire doesn't indulge him, because if he starts he won't be able to _stop_.

He didn't want to ruin what little remained of their friendship ~~Does he think I would kill him too if I thought it was the merciful option?~~ accidentally conf- _saying_ the wrong thing.

 _'Remember_ _Yennefer._ ' He thinks to himself, reaching for another bottle, and trying to ignore the parts of his body that were touching the witcher. ' _He has Yennefer. He has Ciri. There is no room for you anymore._ ' (There never was and I should have stayed _dead_ ). "I simply decided to have a bit of my brew here in the crypt. The atmosphere here is suitably… gloomy." Regis adds to his previous sentence after a large sip of mandrake hooch.

It burned less than the skin that touched the Witcher.

"Don't bullshit me, Regis." Geralt growled out, thought his voice was once more devoid of anger (why won't you hate me?). "You were supposed to be in Nilfgaard, where vampires are all but unheard of. Where it's _safe_. Why are you in this crypt?"

He's worried, dear _God_ why is he _worried_?

"...perhaps I no longer want to be safe." He whispered, looking up at the stoney roof of the cave-like structure, and feeling the silver haired man's eyes bare into him like concentrated fire. "Perhaps it is high time justice was served."

Besides him Geralt sighed and Regis could feel his shoulders sag.

"Regis…"

"It should have been me back then." The choked response came out before the vampire could stop it. "That night at Tesham Mutna." He didn't need to clarify, they both knew what he was referring to, they were both _there_. "The man lying in that ditch with a throat tore open by the fangs of a dear friend, should have been _me_." He took in a shaky breath, hoping against hope that he's strong enough to keep the tears inside for just a bit longer. "He didn't _deserve_ this."

A gloved hand landed on his shoulder, warm, heavy and _comforting_ , and Regis nearly broke in two then and there.

"Neither do you." But he didn't, opting instead for a dry chuckle at his companion's words. "You _have_ to believe that, Regis." There was a certain plea in his voice now, like he's begging for that sentence to be true. Like he's begging for Regis to _not_ be the self-destructive madman that the vampire _pretended_ he _wasn't_ , for the last hundred years.

"You believe it enough for the both of us, my friend." He takes another swing of mandrake, an action that Geralt watched with such a disapproving frown that Regis wondered if he'll knock the bottle out of his grasp if he does it again.

"You never drank so much before." The witcher pointed out, his gold eyes still on the bottle, watching intently as the liquor flowed down the long glass neck and disappeared behind thin lips.

"I never murdered a friend before." Regis whispered back softly, still refusing to look his long time friend in the eyes. "It is a fact I'd rather forget."

He knows he won't forget, that no amount of alcohol can wash the taste of vampire blood off his fangs or quiet the treacherous thoughts that whisper to him with his brother's voice when there is nothing else to listen to, but relief, however brief it may be, is still _relief_.

And that's in short supply these days…

"You can't keep relying on this to help you." The witcher said, gently guiding the bottle away from him.

"It hasn't failed me yet." Regis shrugged and, though he was much stronger than his friend, he's far too tired to pull it back to his mouth.

"A wise man once told me to treat the cause and not the symptoms." Geralt's voice was quiet, soothing, as if he was talking to a wounded animal. "You're trying to _drown_ the cause, Regis."

The vampire didn't respond, just watched a tiny bug move about the dark ceiling.

"This... isn't something that will go away if you ignore it, old friend."

"What else is there for me to do?" He hated how broken his voice sounds, despite his best efforts to make it remain steady, because now? Now Geralt is _never_ going to leave.

"Talk to me." _How_? ~~I can't even bring myself to say your name.~~

The vampire would have laughed at the irony of the situation; the close-lipped witcher who refuses to talk about his issues, trying to coax his irritatingly verbose vampire friend into talking about the trauma that is slowly swallowing him whole, if he wasn't so close to breaking.

"Like a patient to a healer?" Regis asked, hating how tight his voice sounds and how brittle it feels against his throat.

"Like a friend to a friend." Ge- _He_ makes it sound so _easy_ , like _all_ he has to _do_ is open his mouth, let the words _flow_ , and _all will be well_.

He chuckled because it would solve _nothing_.

"I wouldn't do that to you, old friend." Regis said, smiling softly covering the gloved hand with his own. "Those burdens are mine and mine alone."

He hoped that was enough to make the silver haired man give up and leave.

It wasn't.

Instead Regis found himself being pulled into a tight hug, the closeness and warmth and ~~sweet Melitele I don't deserve this~~ _safety_ almost made his demons burst through the cracks and drown them _both_.

" _Please_ let me help you, Regis." Geralt whispered into his ear. "I can't stand to see you suffer."

And just like that…

The vampire broke.


End file.
